


Parsnips and Parsimony

by verilyvexed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crack, M/M, PWP, misuse of fruit and vegetables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verilyvexed/pseuds/verilyvexed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is awfully fond of Erik, but he isn't sure about pursuing a physical relationship. That's where the produce comes in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parsnips and Parsimony

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Parsnips and Parsimony 蔬果使用101法](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3788335) by [Analgisia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analgisia/pseuds/Analgisia)



> I don't remember what started this, but I'm pretty sure it's all kispexi's fault. Thanks to her for the beta.

The law of parsimony, also known as Occam's Razor, is really more a rule of thumb. It states that whatever explanation seems the simplest, the most logical, and doesn't go about convoluting itself unnecessarily is apt to be the correct one. Charles is well-acquainted with the notion and, at this moment, is trying furiously to ignore it.

He stands before the desk in his study, fruits and vegetables arranged in rows of military precision on his desk. He eyes them warily. Also on the desk, in the corner, as if overseeing, hidden behind the green-edged bunch of bananas and the cup of pens and pencils, sits a pot of petroleum jelly.

Willem Ockham would think he'd lost his mind.

Charles rubs a hand over his face. "I can't believe I'm seriously contemplating this," he mutters. He tries to ignore the fact that procuring and preparing the elements of an experiment go slightly beyond 'contemplating'.

He sighs. Perhaps he should be doing this in his bedroom. But no - it would be easier to explain the tiny, inconspicuous pot of petroleum jelly in his desk than an enormous cucumber in his bedroom.

"Petroleum jelly is perfectly innocent," he says, tone reassuring, then wonders why he's speaking to himself aloud.

The drapes are shut, the door is locked, and he lets his consciousness stretch to make certain there's no one in the immediate vicinity. His awareness lingers longest near Erik: not invading, not reading, just hovering. It's the telepathic equivalent of secretly sniffing his hair, and Charles pulls back before he thinks it could be properly considered creepy.

Erik. He smiles sappily. This actually is all Erik's fault. The smile falters. _Erik_ , Charles thinks at the carrots, going so far as to raise a hand in a gesture of helplessness. How can he possibly explain how much he cares for Erik? The depth of the connection between them would truly frighten him if he didn't know Erik felt it as well. The word "love" seemed trite and meaningless compared to the esteem, the concern, the fondness, the overwhelming desire he felt for Erik.

The desire was the problem. Oh, Charles felt it, just as strongly as Erik, but Charles had seen inside Erik's head. Erik wanted to do things to Charles that weren't technically legal. One learns to sidestep little things like the law when one is capable of altering someone's memory (always within reason, of course, and only for very important purposes, or when it might be embarrassing otherwise). But.

Charles had never done those things before. His inquisitive mind found them interesting, of course. He had brushed minds who enjoyed that sort of thing. But second-hand memories and first-hand experience are entirely different.

That's where the cucumbers, parsnips, bananas, and grapefruit come in. (Well, not the grapefruit. That was breakfast. He shudders at the thought.)

Charles looks at the assemblage apologetically. Double-checks the lock. Double-checks the drapes. Double-checks that he isn't going to be interrupted. Realises that he's pacing. Sighs again.

The best way to begin is simply to begin. He knows this. Nervously, he peels a banana. It's slightly under-ripe, firm, the peel waxy and smooth beneath his fingers. He holds it gently at the base in one hand, licking his lips meditatively.

Charles has never had a cock in his mouth, nor in any other orifice in his body, for that matter. There was a time he would've thought the notion uncomfortable at best, yet the ida has become increasingly appealing - to the point of interfering with his sleep. Still, having a cock in one's mouth seems to be the sort of thing one should be certain one wants before getting others involved.

Hence the banana. It isn't a perfect specimen for what he had in mind, but he supposes it will suffice.

He lets the tip of the banana rest on his tongue as his mouth encircles it. Slowly, he pushes it in. It isn't warm, and the weight and texture is wrong, but he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine. He pushes, further, and more, until the tip of the banana presses insistently against the back of his throat.

A wave of self-awareness washes over him, causing him to feel supremely foolish. What must he look like? The peel tickles his nose. But Charles has a good imagination, perhaps by virtue of having access to everyone else's. So he imagines it's Erik instead.

 _Erik_ , he thinks, and silently sighs. Not a banana. No phallic piece of fruit, pale yellow scent and clammy flaccid peel but instead Erik, Erik's cock, warm and heavy, tasting of salt and sweat, in Charles's mouth and on his tongue, his nose pressed to Erik's groin, heat and hair and skin and throbbing heart and want, hand fisted in his hair, Erik fucking his mouth.

Charles's pace picks up. He breathes loudly through his nose. Want, indeed. Yes. Dear God, _please_. He wants it so badly he means to call for Erik - forget the experiments, _let's do this_ now.

But Charles is a perfectionist, and technique is important.

So he thinks again of Erik, and thinks of Erik's cock, and works the banana slowly in and out of his mouth. He shaves a bit off with his teeth accidentally and cringes. (But, he reasons, that's what this whole session is for.) After a moment or so he feels he's rather got the hang of it, and attempts to test his gag reflex. It would be supremely fortunate, he thinks, if he didn't have one. He gives the banana a shove.

He has a gag reflex. By the time he's composed himself, there are half-masticated chunks of banana all over the rug and Charles is red-faced, wheezing, eyes watering.

Mankind is endlessly capable of learning, of improving, he tells himself. Mutantkind perhaps doubly so. It's a cheering thought, as is the acknowledgement that Erik likely (please, he begs the ceiling) won't have a peel left to whiffle about Charles's face, attempting to suffocate him.

Charles rakes smushed banana off the polished mahogany and considers the experiment a success. He is nothing if not an optimist.

And now it's on to the vegetables.

* * *

To say he feels absurd would be an understatement, but he expected as much. Likewise, his curiosity does not surprise him; neither does the sense of perversion (though the mischievous glee accompanying it was rather unanticipated).

The most remarkable thing is how incredibly aroused he is.

Charles would be the first to agree it's utter madness. Yet his fingers are slick and pushing places no one has ever been, and he's staring at the cucumber flung wantonly on the settee and thinking of Erik and his knees are shaking with something that might be due to the awkward angle in which he's kneeling and just might be due to want.

The sensations are strange and unfamiliar, and his body at first translates them as unpleasant and uncomfortable. But then, gradually, his perception shifts.

"Oh--"

Charles presses his face into the back of the settee. He thinks of Erik, imagines it's Erik stretching him so perfectly, leaving Charles with a bright burning ache, sweetly seething. His voice is a muffled, high-pitched whine into the cushions. _Erik_ \--

The cucumber falls to the floor as he takes himself in hand. It's served its purpose, and how. He thrusts frantically into his fist, climbing, ascending, reaching - almost there - so close - he can feel the ecstasy building -

There's a loud click behind him as the tumblers in the lock on the door hastily rearrange themselves. The door slams open. Charles feels a chill draft on the backs of his thighs, on his bare bottom, the soles of his feet. (He isn't certain if it's better or worse he's still wearing his button down top and cardigan.)

He swallows. His breathing is very loud. He is afraid to reach out mentally toward the door. He already knows who it is, he's certain. Slowly, he turns to look over his shoulder.

It is with apparent difficulty that Erik tears his gaze from Charles's arse. "Charles...?"

Charles isn't certain how he's expected to respond to that, so he doesn't. With as much dignity as he can muster, he clambers out of his backwards kneeling position. He stands then sits, tucking the tails of his shirt beneath him.

And then he notices the cucumber. It lies in the floor, too far away for him to casually rake it under the sofa with his foot. He doesn't think Erik can see it from this angle, especially if Charles wills him not to look. But...

 _This really is an inopportune time to be having a moral dilemma,_ he thinks.

Erik takes a step toward him.

Charles can only imagine the panic that must be visible on his face.

"I thought -- I heard --" Erik is trying to say, doing an admirable job of ignoring the fact he's addressing a man naked from the waist down. "I -- I thought you were in trouble," he finally gets out.

"Oh?"

It isn't a very good response, Charles acknowledges, but Erik is creeping toward the desk and any moment now, he's going to see. _If I will him not to look, that's not really manipulating him or denying his autonomy, not really, I mean, if he didn't want to me to look at a vegetable he'd been sodomising himself with, I'd think that was perfectly groovy - more power to_ \-- Charles cut his inner monologue short, utterly disturbed by what he was saying and/or hearing.

"I heard you call my name," Erik says, his face a study in perplexity. "You sounded distressed."

Fuck. "Oh. Er. I -- don't think I... Could you have perhaps fallen asleep and dreamt it? Or imagined it? We've all been under a great deal of stress lately, Erik. It would come as no surprise to me if--"

"No, Charles, I'm certain I heard--" Erik stops, staring at the bananas, the grapefruit, the tub of petroleum jelly. His gaze lingers longest on the latter. His eyes narrow. He looks at Charles suspiciously. "Why is there..." He picks up the remaining bananas in the bunch and holds them aloft, as if he expects them to speak for themselves. As he stares, his gaze gradually lowers.

And then - _Oh, lovely_ \- he sees the cucumber.

Charles is certain it would be impossible for his face to feel any hotter were it literally on fire. "I know what you're thinking. And I can explain," he says. The only explanation that presents itself, however, is the truth. Not terribly helpful, that.

"Charles," Erik says, softly incredulous. "Were you..."

Charles covers his face. This couldn't possibly be more excruciating; he might as well give in to any childish tendencies that arise. "All right, yes," he says, cringing. "Though I must warn you, if you laugh, I swear I'll erase it from your memory."

There is a pause. Charles squeezes his eyes more tightly shut. Erik is disgusted, and of course he is, why wouldn't he be, _a bloody_ cucumber, _Charles, honestly, what were you_ thinking—

"You said my name," Erik says, interrupting the pandemonium of his thoughts. There is something in his tone that sets Charles's entire body to tingling.

Charles looks up from between his fingers. There is heat in Erik's gaze, but also a question.

Charles swallows, bites his lip, then nods.

The door closes. The tumblers set themselves to locking. Erik grins.

* * *

"Oh—"

There's a perfectly serviceable settee in the room, but they're on the desk. Or rather, Charles is, sprawled on his back, gripping the bevelled edges as the polished mahogany tugs at the skin of his arms with each thrust. His back is coated with a thin sheen of perspiration and has the opposite problem; Erik stands at the edge of the desk and keeps a hand clamped on his hip and another at his shoulder for leverage, and to keep him from sliding away.

Charles's hands skitter faintly over Erik's chest, his arms - anywhere he can reach. And then they cling once again to the desk as sensation threatens to overwhelm. The bananas were flung from the surface and are no doubt bruised, lying neglected in the floor. Their scent carries, drifts over him. Then pens in the cup rattle each time Erik pushes into him.

And Erik is so very good at doing so. Charles bites his lip nearly bloody to keep from crying out. His calves bob comically over Erik's arms, toes curled. His insides feel molten. The cup of pens clatters over and falls to the floor.

Erik's hands are flat and broad with long, fine fingers that are wrapping now around Charles and causing him to whimper. His eyes are heavy lidded, a hungry, helpless look in them as he stares down at Charles. His mind is like a whirlpool, with Charles at the centre, and the only coherent thought is: _yes_. His hips piston frantically - frequent shallow surges that make Charles dizzy with want. Erik's close. He could get off just from knowing that, just from seeing that it's his doing, Erik wants him, Erik wants —

He shudders as he comes and Charles can feel him tense and pulse and spill. Charles follows after, a quick sticky ejection that feels like soaring. And then, after several moments full of nothing but contented harsh breathing, Erik chuckles. He curls over Charles, pressing against him, pushing him into the desk and kissing his neck breathlessly. He nuzzles Charles's cheek with his nose, then asks, "Was I better than the cucumber?"

Charles groans in a way that has nothing to do with passion, though he still clings to Erik. "Marginally," is his reply, delivered with a kiss to Erik's ear. "And just for that, we're using your shirt to clean up."

* * *

They alternate which bedroom they use, though Charles's four-poster provides the most comfort and opportunity for mischief. For appearance's sake both rooms are kept, and they always wait until the children are asleep before retiring. Tongues might wag. These are unenlightened times, and Charles would rather not have any problems.

But everyone probably knows. They're smart kids. Yet they haven't said a word, none of them, not even Raven. If any of them has noticed that Charles seems far more buoyant of late, and Erik disinclined to glare, and that certain fruits and vegetables seem to go missing from the kitchen in the middle of the night, well, surely they could work it out. The simplest explanation is the most likely. It's obvious, really.


End file.
